Raw
by DarkDefender89
Summary: Bruce Wayne continues to fight crime despite being chased by the police.Then, 2 things happen that changes his life forever:1,Joker escapes, and 2, a unique woman saves his life.& she certainly is no damsel-in-distress.Bruce/OC warning deals w/ self harm
1. Chapter 1

**Raw**

**Chapter One.**

It was an ordinary day, or at least as ordinary as it could ever be for me. I had just recently moved to Gotham after completing my life goals: 1, earning a black belt, and 2, writing and publishing five novels. I was twenty-five and did everything I ever dreamed of, and at the same time, I have done nothing. I felt both relieved and empty. There was nothing left for me. I was estranged from my family after refusing to take sides in my parents' bitter divorce. They were alive and there, but gone. Even though my car could drive the miles, they were unreachable.

_'You don't love me! You love him, you took his side, let him throw me into a mental institution, hell I bet you even told him to!' her mom screached. She froze, paralyzed by the shocking nature of her mother's words. She froze now, remembering them._ _It happened years ago, back when she was in college, but it was permanently burned into her mind._

_'You're nothing, Kelsey, you hear me, NOTHING. You are a failure, you don't know how much you hurt me by turning out this way. You just sit there, you're not even writing, you're never going to get a novel published, its all lies, its PRETEND, you live in a FANTASY WORLD, KELSEY! I should have only had David, Kevin, and Illea. Just go live with your father if you love him so much!'_

_I remembered sitting on my bed, frozen. It wasn't true, I wrote all the time, I just didn't show her my work. I was almost twenty, I deserved at least an ounce of privacy! _

_"Are you going to call your father or do I have to ask David to call?" she screached. "Are you even listening to me, Kelsey?"_

_She was drunk. She was always drunk, either that or on pills, she was weary, tired, betrayed by her husband. My father. My father did bad things in his life, to my mom, to me, to my sister, but not that bad. Not the kind of thing that can't be forgiven. But maybe it can't be. He wasn't the only one, though. It wasn't one-sided violence. That wasn't the story. They threw furniture at each other. He broke her ankle, but she threw glass at him, threw chairs at him, forced him to sleep in the garage, destroyed his suits. It wasn't right. It was all wrong. It was all pathetic. But they were my parents. And I loved them. And I thought they loved me. It turns out I was wrong._

_She threw the bottle of wine she was holding when I didn't respond. The glass shattered in front of me - in front of my eyes were the shattered pieces of my mother's hatred family. It wasn't like I didn't predict this from the very beginning, back when I was ten and got lost at Niagra Falls and my father told me to eat shit. My family had always been chaos. A broken puzzle piece. But my parents never had all of the pieces. They didn't have all the pieces to the puzzle, I wouldn't let them in on the dark veil that fell over my eyes, the numbness that I felt, the emptiness that resonated inside my core. I didn't let them know, because I couldn't. How could I tell them, when they had their own problems? I hated them, with passion, but I also loved them, with passion. I loved them enough to leave when I was told, and spare them. Spare them from the demon that I knew they could never contain.  
_

I don't know why I moved to Gotham. All I can say is a voice inside my heart told me that I must go to Gotham. I don't know what carried me here, what is left for me to do or be, except for the one thing that has kept guys away from me for years: my razor blade.

Which is in my right hand right now. Digging into the scarred flesh of my left arm. This was my addiction, my forbidden pleasure. Cutting myself.

Anyone who got close enough to love me freaked out. Got scared, ran away. How could they not judge me? It was impossible. No one cared to truly see me, see past my eccentricities. They only saw my dark clothes, look at the little emo chick hiding in the shadows, watch her put her dark blue over her hood, look at how it cascades over her eyes, can you see her tears? But I am not emo. I am dark, maybe, if you want to call it darknes, but there is no such thing as "emo." What is a world that disregards emotions, forbids the world to trully feel, tells us that it is a sin, you are dark, you are disgusting, if you want to be in tune to your emotions. No one wants to truly see the girl who casts her eyes down on labels, the girl who doesn't give a shit what they think of her. Look at her, they say behind her back, thinking they won't see her, she doesn't care about any of us. What a heartless bitch, how cold do her viens run? But none of that is true. It shatters my heart that I hurt them, I don't know them but my heart bleeds for them. I don't care what they think, but that doesn't mean that I don't care.

That night it was all too quiet in my apartment. I was numb, I was listening to the wind, I was cutting myself, watching the blood flow freely out of my arm. It excited me. My heart raced, the adreneline pumped through my veins and I played with the pearls of blood with my pale fingers. Its funny when people cry when they are happy. Its even funnier when people laugh when they are sad. I do it all the time, though. I dig the blade into my arm once more and I laugh histarically as the blood gushes to the surface, I sing: I AM ALIVE, I AM ALIVE!!!!

Then I heard a loud noise outside. Instinctively I stood up, and, without making a sound, opened my door and snuck outside. Curiosity propelled me forwards. The noise very easily could have been a box falling. But then I heard someone moan. If I hadn't been trained to focus in on even the dimmest of sounds, I wouldn't have noticed.

But I noticed. The sky was dark. A still air hung over the alleyway and the dust underneath my bare feet felt strange. My arm was still bleeding, but I didn't notice.

On the floor was the man who had supposedly killed five people. Batman. There was blood, too, although it was hard to spot it, camouflaged by the midnight black of his armor. His breathing was heavy. I almost didn't see it – and that would have been a disaster for Gotham – but in the shadows another man held a gun. I didn't know if Batman noticed, I didn't know how wounded he was, but I knew that this was the moment – I knew it right then – that I had been training for.

I leapt into action. It must have been a weird sight to behold, a slim but muscular girl wearing only a black sleeveless nightgown knocking a gun out of a bulky man's arm and putting his arm into an arm-lock. All this, while bleeding.

I knocked the man – whoever he was – unconscious with one punch to the temple.

I went to help Batman, but by the time I got to his side he was already up. I suddenly felt extremely self-conscience; here I was with all of my cuts exposed. I felt naked. I didn't know what to say, I had just knocked a guy unconscious, I might have just saved Batman's life, but he's standing now and I was sure he'd be fine, I could see in his eyes how stubborn he was.

It was dark out. He might not even have seen my arm.

"Thank you," he said in a low, grunting voice and then disappearing into the midnight sky. I stood in the cold night and watched as he reached into his utility belt and pressed a button. A car from hell raced around the corner and I watched, frozen, as Batman got into the car. I stood out there, watching as the car disappeared into the night.

I was mesmerized. That was to put it lightly. It was freezing outside, but I was frozen in place, the dust under my feet, the cold black pavement, the trash bag forlorn and abandoned in the middle of the alleyway. I couldn't move. _What_ had just happened?

Then I remembered where I was. Gotham City, crime capital of the USA. I may have a black belt, but I'm no Superman. A bullet would kill me. I hurried inside. Washed my arm. Slid into my bed and let myself fall asleep.

**To Be Continued….**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two.**

The night was almost over, and Bruce Wayne had just finished tying up a group of thugs that were attempting to rape a little girl. She was skinny, dirt on her face, strawberry hair. Rags for clothes. He tied the perps up, called Gordon to come apprehend them. Bent down to help the little girl. From the corner of his eyes he saw one of the fallen would-be-rapist stand up and raise his gun. Afraid he was aiming at the little girl, Bruce positioned himself in front of the little girl and knocked both of them out of the path of the bullet.

He wasn't quick enough.

It was an armor-piercing bullet. But he didn't scream when the bullet pierced his outer thigh. He looked into the girl's eye and told her to run, call the police and tell them what the bad men tried to do to her.

He managed to knock the bastard that shot him unconscious again.

He was losing blood quickly. He stumbled into an alleyway a couple blocks down.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

He hadn't seen the other man with the gun until it was too late. The bullet must have been laced with something, because his vision was cloudy. He felt his back bang into the wall as he stumbled. That would leave a nasty bruise.

Whatever was in the bullet was taking affect. He felt it invade his veins, his heart beat quickening and his vision blurring. His forehead was sweating - the heavy armor was wearing down on him.

Then he saw her. He saw her before he saw the man with the gun. She wasn't real, she looked like an angel who descended from heaven, perhaps to take him. Through the veil of fog her skin appeared ethereal, it almost seemed to glow.

It all happened too quickly. He saw the barrel of the gun, he was staring into it, and then the lady's swift movements.

He forced himself to stand up. He remembered that he had to call Alfred. That he couldn't let a stranger really get to know him; that it was too dangerous.

His vision was foggy but he saw the blood on her arm, had that man with the gun stabbed her? Everything happened so quickly. He didn't think the man had a knife, but he must be wrong about that, right?

The drugs in the bullet were taking over his senses, but he forced himself to press the button that moved his Batmobile, and then call Alfred. Alfred. He would make the pain go away.

He somehow managed to get into the Batmobile. Pressed "automatic". Pushed on through the haze. Pure determination pushed him through the pain. He forced himself to stay awake. He tried to remember the angel's face. It was dark out, and there were shadows under her eyes. Her skin was ashen, ghost white. She could have been a ghost, except ghosts don't move like that. Ghosts aren't real. And if they were, ghosts can't bleed.

He steadied himself for the impact of the car jumping over the waterfall. The car landed, drove into the cave. He stepped out of the car. Alfred was waiting for him with his kindly smile, waiting to nurse his injuries back to health.

Even underneath the pain and fog his brain was starting to formulate guesses on the shooter in the alley. It was as if he had been stationed there, as if he expected to find Batman there. It left Bruce unsettled. Were the rapist and the lone gunman connected? Another case to solve. The gunshot wound in his thigh wouldn't be allowed to limit him. He simply didn't have the time to wait for it to heal.

"What did you get yourself into this time, Master Bruce?" Alfred said.

Bruce peeled off his armor revealing his bloody thigh. "Gunshot wound," he grunted. "I think it's laced with something."

Alfred helped Bruce over to the make-shift surgery table and helped Bruce remove the bullet. Alfred called Fox, who analyzed the substance and formulated an antidote.

Then Bruce simply slept it off. Wearily, he descended the marble staircase and collapsed into his bed. He was restless, thinking about her, she couldn't have been an angel, he had the common sense to know that. He tossed and turned in his bed, irritating the bruises on his chest. The bullet wound in his thigh burned, seared with white-hot pain, but he ignored it. He was used to this by now, he couldn't let the pain get to him. He couldn't let it make him weary. In the morning he'd be fine. In the morning he'd start searching for the answers.

He couldn't sleep, he was too worried, the girl, he didn't want her to be involved. It was too dangerous. 'Too dangerous,' he thought, his thoughts still incoherent from the effects of the poison. 'It will wear off soon,' he knows, he knows because Fox gave him the antidote. He couldn't sleep, but he had to. He had to stop thinking, he had to sleep so he could pull off the billionare playboy facade tomorrow. He had to go to work tomorrow, go to parties in the early evening.

He simply couldn't get the girl out of his head, he couldn't erase the dark circles under her eyes; the haunted, pale skin; her forlorn gaze. He couldn't erase it. He couldn't get her out of his mind, but he had to.

For now he forgot, banished her image to a faraway place in his mind. And he slept.

**To Be Continued….**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

When I woke up I was numb. There was nothing inside of me, only emptiness, and I didn't remember what happened, just the ethereal notion that something happened and everything would be different from now on. Except that nothing was different. Everything was the same, rays of sunlight still pierced into my room in the morning: the light was jagged, sterile. I blinked twice and tried to remember. Succeeded, halfheartedly. Batman. I had helped Batman last night.

I had no real reason to get up. I could write, but I had no motivation to write these days. My arm throbbed, reminding me of what I have to do to get through the day. Reminding me that there may be no point – the world may be this desolate dreamscape and we tell ourselves that everything happens for a reason but its hard to really think that there is actually no point and everything might just be an illusion; one day our bodies will burn and collapse, we will become silhouettes, dust, and no one will ever know we were alive – but I'm alive, I can feel, I'm in control of what I feel and what I don't feel.

As long as I don't think about it I'm fine with it. Cutting's just a part of who I am, so ingrained in who I am, how I deal with my pain and numbness, that I would never be able to stop.

I went through the motions: stand up, brush my hair, wash my face, eat cereal, brush my teeth. I was a zombie. There was no point to my life. And yet I couldn't help but wonder. How much had Batman seen? _Who_ is the Batman? It would be an interesting puzzle to solve. A mystery, I have always loved mysteries.

And just like that, I had something to do, something to care about. It didn't mean I was going to stop cutting, I needed my razor blades to get through the day and even if I wanted to stop I highly doubt I would be able to.

A reason to get up each day. A reason not to dig the blade in one inch too deep.

It's not that I wanted to find out who the Batman was. I can't say that I wasn't curious. But no, I was more interested in _why_ Batman did what he did…what was his story, what he was fighting for, what his scars looked like (emotional ones, but I can't say I wasn't interested in the physical ones…you can't fight crime and not have scars), what his dreams were, what his childhood was, did he even have a childhood?

That was what I wanted to know. Everything about him – what made him want to scream, what made him laugh, did he know how to laugh (I don't think I remember how to laugh), does he ever cry, who is _his_ hero – everything except his name, who he really is.

As a novelist I have a little bit of experience in research, but not much, so I wasn't really sure how to begin. I guessed that Batman came out at nights, so I would start there. Wander the streets at night, keep my eyes open in silent vigil. Just like him, I guess. Kind of.

I was overwhelmed by the possibilities. Scared of the possibilities. Its hard to venture into the unknown without clinging to something that you already know. I rushed to my bathroom. Pictured Batman's cold eyes. Fear bubbled up inside me, fear that Batman had seen the cuts on my arm and placed them for what they were, and did he have the power to force me to stop? NO. I could not let that happen. I collapsed on the cold tile floor of my bathroom, my vision blurry and my heartbeat racing. I was only half-aware of what I was doing. Later I might not remember punching my mirror, grabbing a jagged shard of glass (I didn't have the time to search for my razor blade, the need to still have this, to still cut, was overwhelming), pulled up my sleeve and tore into my skin. Watching the blood fall to my bathroom floor appeased my fear, sated my desire (at least temporarily). I don't hate change, but sometimes it scares me. 'There's so much to do.' The stress of a new project overwhelmed me. I dug the already bloody shard of glass in my arm again. It wasn't enough, I remembered my brother's face, his eyes, his voice as he complained to my mom, "I don't want you to see me like Kelsey", or something like that when mom was angry. Like I was dirt, subhuman. Like it would be the end of the world if Harrison was anything like me. I didn't want to remember. I struck myself with the glass, violently,repeatedly, almost with the amount of force as a punch. My world was dimming. I knew I had to make myself stop, I was on the brink of going to deep.

"That's not going to happen," I said outloud. Talking to myself helped. If I'm talking I can't be dead.

I look at the glass in my hands, dazed, frightened of myself. I stared at the glass, not wanting to die, but wanting to continue to cut, feel the rush of severing my skin apart. I knew that if I let the shard of glass touch my skin one more time I would loose control. My hand shook and the shard of glass fell to the floor. I held onto the sink counter, held myself up; blood smeared on the porcelain sink.

I went through the motions again, even though I was dizzy. Turned the faucet on, let warm water mix with the blood on my arm. Press the rag to my arm. Open my medicine cabinet, find the butterfly stitches.

I was revamped now, energized. Its ironic because I was also dizzy and out of energy, most people who felt like this would faint. I sunk to the ground and leaned against the cabinet underneath my sink, relieved that I lived on my own and didn't have to worry about cleaning up my bloody mess just yet. Not just yet.

I breathed in and out. In and out. I closed my eyelids, counted to 20, then opened them again. My hair was tangled, my skin was ashen and white.

Then I forced myself to get up. Put on a black tank top, smiled, turned on my computer, typed "Batman" into the Google search engine. Should I believe what I found? Is Batman really a murderer, did he kill those people? It's hard to believe, after seeing such a broken version of Batman. It's hard to believe. I shook my head and abandoned my computer. I'd have more luck talking to people, asking them what they thought about Batman. Only problem is, I have no friends. Acquaintances, maybe, but nothing more than that. That's okay, though. It will work.

I put my laptop in my bag, slipped a black jacket on, and got in my car and drove to the coffee shop I periodically go to to write. Maybe it will give me some answers.

**To Be Continued....**

**To Be Continued…**


End file.
